


Out-Skilled

by Copyrightdragon



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Maybe Ships Later???, Strong Language, Very OOC Kakarot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22329241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copyrightdragon/pseuds/Copyrightdragon
Summary: An instinctively and biologically ruthless race that submits only to true shows of force and prowess, Saiyan children born with a low power level had historically been killed by their own parents; they'd believed it was mercy, preventing them from ever having to struggle through life barely able to throw a ki blast. King Vegeta didn't send low-born Saiyans to backwater planets as a banishment. He did it so that they would have an opportunity to grow stronger, to bring fresh ideas and techniques to the battlefield, to save them from the brutality of their own race, to give them a chance of a life where they could be happier, like Tarble. This proves fruitful when a low-born Saiyan, retrieved by his scientist uncle in the waves of recruitment to form their rebellion against Lord Frieza, turns out to be one of their greatest assets, an assassin unlike any their galaxy had ever seen.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Fig & Brie

“Ummmm… My Lord Beerus… what is that?”

“Hm? What is what?”

“That.” Whis reaches out and points his blue finger at a great orange smear on Lord Beerus’ to-do list, obfuscating approximately a quarter of the day’s scheduled events.

“Oh! Uh…” Lord Beerus leans in, sniffs the translucent substance, and hums thoughtfully. “Smells like Kitogorian blange jelly. I had a bunch of jam and cheese sandwiches with some of the greatest jams, jellies, fruit preserves, and cheeses in this universe’s existence.” Whis blinks owlishly. "What? I was hungry!"

“Aaaand?”

“And, well, some of it must’ve splattered on here when I wasn’t looking.” Licking his thumb, he begins trying to rub the brightly colored goo from the paper, but only succeeds in further smudging the ink. As he grows visibly frustrated, Whis must think fast on some way to sufficiently distract his Lord and calm him down.

“Oh, yes of course, but which was the best combination?” This gives the Destroyer pause, as there were definitely a few dozen that he would rate at a ten out of ten.

“Perhaps we should go in search of more cheeses to find out?” Lord Beerus nods emphatically in agreement. Truly, the answer to this question was a conundrum worthy of several decades of study. After all, he hadn’t even touched the possibility of wine pairings and variety of age in the individual cheeses themselves! Whatever it was that had been smudged off the list could surely wait until this all-important question had been solved. He might even have time to take a nap before anything _really_ needed destroying by his hand! The list is thus incinerated, and the two of them travel on, bickering about whether they should extend their deliberation to include what bread you use as your base.

* * *

King Vegeta III paces the floor of his throne room, utterly rearranged to make the greatest feasting hall in the entire star system. Foodstuffs from the farthest reaches of the Colds’ territory lay beautifully presented in dishes of silver, gold, and fine bone china. Flowers and vine plants from across the planet have been arranged just so. Only the softest of pillows and blankets were chosen in rendering their normally highly practical, nearly Spartan, chairs more comfortable. Everyone is dressed to the nines, clinking with jewelry and hard-earned battle trophies. Attendants swarm the table, using their ki in order to keep things hot or warm as needed, changing the ice baths for the fruits and drinks, all of which sit, pristine, untouched. All the advisors standing back by the wall have stopped in their attempts to reassure their ruler. He’s worried himself into a knot, muttering and pulling at his hair.

Lord Beerus is late. Is it possible for a god to be late, or is everyone else simply too early? Well, if it's the most capricious God of Destruction, does it really matter? He keeps to his appointments in his own time. This, King Vegeta understands quite well, having been on both sides of the equation in his lifetime. Perhaps he had mistook the day? No, he’d had it confirmed for him nearly twice a day for the past few months. All of the planning and preparation it took to pull off such an event while under the thumb of someone like Lord Frieza had been terribly stressful and time-consuming. To just give up now, after only four hours of waiting, all of them growing terribly hungry all the while, seems to him both a terrible waste, and an unforgivable folly were Lord Beerus to eventually show up.

Thus, he’d reached an impasse. He and all of his court had been standing there, sweating it out in their finery, since before the suns had set. Now the moon is fully risen, there's no avoiding the potentiality that the God of Destruction simply isn’t coming. If he calls things now, however, and Lord Beerus makes an appearance, it could spell the doom of their entire race. This quandary is what’s kept him wearing a hole in the richly carpeted floor for the past two hours. He can’t risk letting his people get wiped off the map, not after they’d only just clawed their way into a decent life through a decade of war with the Tuffles.

The King might’ve even gone on for another four hours were he not distracted by the sound of something falling to the floor. His nerves stretched thin, he whips around, both furious and scared that it might be his long-awaited guest, only to find his wife, Rabi, crouching over their son, who’d likely passed out due to a lack of food. Saiyans have an unbelievably high metabolism; in children, it's typically even higher, given that their bodies are still growing and adapting to the strain of combat and their high ki output. With a sigh, he comes to realize just how much he’d asked of his most loyal elites, as well as of the staff and his own family, to stand still and watch as this grand buffet stands on an empty table.

As a good leader, King Vegeta has to be willing to take responsibility for his own decisions, and, with a vague sense of embarrassment that he hides beneath gratitude, dismisses his court. He bids Rabi goodnight, kisses his unconscious son’s forehead, and takes up vigil at the seat beside the head of the table, all by himself, determined not to touch any of the food until morning comes and erases any doubt of Lord Beerus’ intent to show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I’ve seen the idea of “What if Vegetasei wasn’t destroyed?” played out several times, but it’s kind of died down since Super’s come around. Usually this premise either just moves the Earth cast over as aliens of some sort, or phases them out entirely. I believe the wide variety of techniques presented by Earth fighters, however, could really change the game in the hands of a skilled and intelligent fighter able to keep up with the skyrocketing power levels of interplanetary combat. Thus, we come to this strange mish-mash, wherein the events of Dragon Ball occur normally, up until a spaceship touches down in the middle of the newlywed Goku and Chi-Chi’s backyard. The Dragon Ball franchise is what first got me into fanfiction, so I’m quite excited to try my hand at it and hope you’re ready for some serious monkeying around! 😉


	2. Brain Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I know the prologue’s a little awakward, but it doesn’t really fit anywhere else, and felt right. Now, however, we can get into the meat of the matter.

‘Where the fuck are Raditz and Nappa?’ Vegeta prowls the living quarters he shares with the two big lunkheads, agitated. Said lunkheads were supposed to have returned from their permitted leave last cycle. If they’d gotten themselves so drunk that they fucked up their pods, _again_ , the prince is going to absolutely lose it. How they’d fucked up their _pre-programmed and autopiloted_ pods the first time was already beyond him. _Kais above_ , they’re so _fucking stupid_.

He keenly remembers seething, legs taught and hackles raised, Zarbon just behind him, as they stepped off of the shuttle they’d had to hitch a ride on from Planet 630. Pretty Boy had made some snide comment or other about how Frieza wouldn’t tolerate such ineptitude. The threat was unnecessary, yet somehow managed to make things worse. Both of the taller Saiyans had flinched as the Prince turned stonily on the green-haired creature, knowing they were in even greater trouble for needing him to bail them out.

“They are _my men_ to discipline. I see now I have not done so adequately. They will reap the consequences of their actions according to _Saiyan_ rule, as it is both my right and my responsibility to _enforce it_.” Nappa had clenched his fists and swallowed nervously at his Prince’s declaration but remained stoic. Raditz, being far younger, had looked away, anxiety and uncertainty writ plainly across his face. Zarbon had laughed, long and hard, before throwing some racist barb over his shoulder as he left to report to Lord Frieza. His lack of ability to answer had been a small victory for them, even if it had come at the cost of _intolerable incompetence_.

Anytime shit like this happens, he must remind himself that they’re there as a compromise to his father. They’re there to keep him company and keep him from losing touch with his culture. At first they were there to protect him, but that didn’t last terribly long as his harsh regimen and the zenkai he receives anytime the Frieza Force’s elite _goons_ decide to “help him along in his training” keeps his power on a level far beyond those of his “team”. This flimsy, nonexistent barrier of “sovereignty” has kept the tyrant from truly doing with him and his Saiyan brothers whatsoever he wishes.

Vegeta is both eternally grateful and eternally frustrated for this, for the bulk of his memorable life being spent walking a political tightrope above the river of the Colds’ fury. The Saiyan prince understands very well, that, were he to take all his frustrations out on the two dolts and obliterate them, he’d begin to lose his balance; it’s all too easy to give into the natural bloodlust and urge to conquer that drives their species. Even still, they try his patience. He’s no cubsitter, for fuck’s sake.

Nappa, at least, has a mind for military strategy when he isn’t saturating his liver or satiating his cock. Raditz… doesn’t really use his brain if he can afford it. If it weren’t for his power level and his relation to Bardock, then he likely wouldn’t have ended up in the “enviable position” of being the crown prince’s… guard? Underling? There isn’t really a good term for the way Raditz fits into the Saiyan elite social structure, but at the very least, Vegeta can trust in the fact that the long-haired male is utterly devoted to the throne. His family’s future position depends on it, since Bardock and his psychic powers won’t be around forever.

Raditz wouldn’t even be in this position in the first place if it weren’t for Brolly having finally mastered his _fucking insane_ power. With him in place as a deterrent against Frieza, the relationship between the Saiyans and the Colds has shifted very rapidly over the course of a few years. Of course, Frieza still has the prince as a “ward”, preventing King Vegeta from making any overt moves towards secession that would inevitably become a rebellion and bleed through most of the Cold Kingdom; thus, most of the galaxy teeters on the brink of civil war.

Compromises have therefore been made by Frieza (grudgingly, and mostly on King Cold’s “advice”) to allow the Saiyan prince a bit more liberty within the Frieza Force, better treatment (sometimes), a higher rank, and another warrior to better flesh out his team. Knowing Frieza wouldn’t allow anyone intelligent enough to spy on him, his father sends him muscle head Raditz. What Vegeta wouldn’t give to have someone like Paragus instead in times like these, who at least has more than just hair and a pretty face set three feet above his ass. He’s not sure if he can pull their asses out of hot water so easily a second time. If their last punishment hadn’t been enough, then he’s unsure of what he can do out here on this _blasted rock_ beyond beating them to a bloody pulp, which accomplishes very little for Saiyans, generally.

As his frustration builds over his team off celebrating their most recent successful victory with a drunken bender, the lights in their living quarters go dark. Not just that, but his keen senses also pick up on the fact that the ventilation has stopped. All the lights on the base’s exterior that’re normally visible through their single window are winking out rapidly. His body grows lighter as the simulated gravity cuts out, and the heat coursing through the floor will probably fade soon, as well. Looks like their generator’s kicked the bucket. ‘Of _fucking_ course. And who’s in charge around here right now to fix it? _Dumb-ass fucking Dodoria_.’

Muttering to himself bitterly that _of course_ this shit has to happen while the others are absent, he pulls on his gloves, boots, and armor and heads over to the door. After waiting for a couple of moments, it finally occurs to him that it runs on electricity (it’s a base on an asteroid, _fucking everything runs on electricity, damnit_ ) and he goes to blast the door open, glad to take his anger out on something, only for it to be ripped open from the other side. There’s a dark blur of motion followed by a flash of light as his ki blast travels out into the hallway and blows a hole in the opposing wall.

Vegeta’s mildly stunned to see a figure fluidly standing up from the low crouch they’d used to dodge his ki blast, clad all in black, face, head and hair hidden beneath a black helmet. His scouter, which is battery operated, and thus, shouldn’t have been affected by the outage, hasn’t gone off at all.


	3. Déjà Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeere comes the bloooood~

“I-” Vegeta sends the taller person reeling with a swift kick to the chest, cutting the strange, synthetic computer voice emanating from the helmet off mid-sentence. There’s a metallic clanging as the warped remains of the door clatter to the ground. A nauseating mix of dread and resignation swirls in his gut. The Ghoul. _The. Fucking. Ghoul._ This was it. Frieza’d finally had enough of him and decided to take a hit out on him. Suddenly Nappa and Radditz being “tardy”, and the power going out make all too much sense, no help, no warning from the perimeter alarms, and no witnesses.

His scouter beeps at him insistently, but he ignores it as he goes in for a series of quick jabs, only some of which land. ‘They’re powering up. _Fuck_. I need space to blast this fucker into oblivion.’ Hoping to catch them before they can surpass his power level, he feints an overextension and shoulder checks them as forcefully as he can against the wall. It connects, and has some sort of impact, judging by the static-filled drone from the helmet. The prince doesn’t waste any further time, ducking into a roll to- ‘Oh, fuck.’ Instead of curling up in pain, the Ghoul has bent down and gripped his legs.

With a twist and a yank, Vegeta is slammed into the wall of the corridor. Pain radiates out from his back as everything turns sideways. No, no, he just impacted sideways, like the Ghoul had flung a rag doll and not the Saiyan Royal Heir. He tries to launch himself off the wall and at his assailant but is met with a swift palm strike to the chest, and he can feel his sternum crack. An elbow follows up into his chin, whipping his head back against the cold metal wall.

Stars mob his vision. Frustration wells up within him. First, he cannot properly lead his own people. Now, he cannot even defend himself. The helplessness of his position is redoubled in the face of this creature, of the realization that, by putting out an anonymous bounty, Lord Frieza can’t be blamed for his murder, rendering both his life and his death meaningless; this does not mean, however, that he will go down without a fight. With a shout, he flairs his ki to push the Ghoul away, but it’s useless as they come right back at him, a blur of darkness now grown too quick for him to track properly. Pain blooms across the back and side of his skull, and things swim out of focus.

The Ghoul grabs his hair and the world seems to tilt. There’s a knee to Vegeta’s face that makes his ears ring, his sharp sense of smell inundated with the tangy, metallic taste of his blood. Memories of the slaughter of Base Omicron 92 flash across his mind’s eye unbidden, the corpses mangled almost beyond recognition.

Perhaps it’s the concussion he surely has, but the prince can’t help darkly wondering what twisted and broken shape Radditz and Nappa will find him in when they finally come back to base. Surely Dodoria and the other soldiers of the Frieza Force aren’t going to interfere in their Lord’s plans, feigning ignorance when his team arrives, claiming the moody Saiyan had insisted on being left alone. His moment of distraction earns him another blow to the temple, and the world rapidly fades out.

* * *

Vegeta’s stomach roils and his eyes snap open at the overpowering smell of ozone and burnt flesh, only to wince as the bright lights make his head pulse in pain. It takes a moment for him to get over his dizziness and focus on the sight before him, one he thought he’d relish far more when it happened- Dodoria’s skin blackening and splitting open as he spasms in agonizing death throes. Dead bodies of Frieza’s goons lay scattered about the control room, similarly cooked by blazing electricity. He stares numbly for a moment, unable to register what is happening, if he’s even properly awake or if this is a dream. When the lightning stops and Dodoria’s charred body ceases to twitch, and the foul smell in the room finally makes him lean to the side and vomit, he realizes that he’s still alive somehow. Black-booted feet enter his vision, and a swift strike to his head silences his thoughts once more.

* * *

“Quit fooling around! We have work to do.” The two bulky Saiyans immediately stop their conversation, but Radditz scoffs.

“No disrespect, Your Highness, but you need to relax; it _is_ just a check-in. I’m sure O-92’s comm system is just getting some maintenance done or something. This planet doesn’t even have any dangerous wildlife on it! Even if they might’ve been in any danger, didn’t Guldo and Recoome get stationed here a while back?” Vegeta sends Radditz a scathing look and picks up the pace, forcing them to do the same.

“I _know_ who’s here, Radditz, but the only reason we’re even _on_ this sort of mission instead of clearing planets is because you and Nappa can’t learn to _keep your damn mouths shut_.” This is one of those moments where the prince is amazed at the fact that Radditz is, in fact, older than him, as he puts on an indignant pout fit for an adolescent.

“All I did was call Appule out on his _racist bullshit_! Having to take all that shit from Frieza’s elites is one thing, but from low level trash like that, no _fucking_ way!” Oh, he understood Radditz’ sentiment, shared it, more deeply than the knucklehead would ever realize, but there was no way he was going to let a soldier not even worthy of licking his boots clean set his temper off like that. Vegeta sneers back at him.

“ _Oh?_ Are you going to go after all the _rest_ of the low level trash that speak that way behind our backs, then? How many Saiyans do you _want_ Frieza to replace his forces with?” Vgeta growls. Nappa butts in when he sees Radditz’ mouth open, not giving the long-haired warrior an opportunity to worsen the prince’s mood by continuing to argue.

“I think that explains why they aren’t answering any comms… _and_ why our scouters aren’t going off.” His thin mustache emphasizes the frown on his face. One thick finger points up towards the base’s roof, where the signaling antenna looked like it had been streaked with veins of rust. ‘Fucking Frieza Force and their lazy, neglectful, moronic –' Floating upward to get a better look at the damage that such severe neglect could’ve caused, the higher vantage point revealed to Vegeta what Nappa had truly been pointing at. Recoome, the muscle head of the Ginyu Force, one of the top dogs of Frieza’s army, hung halfway to the base of the antenna, skewered through his midsection.

Eyes widening for a fraction of a second, he looks about and sees a couple of other bodies in the signature armor, white gloves and boots of the Frieza Force, strewn across the base’s roof. They’re all splayed out in ways that suggested they’d fallen from the sky. Some of them had clearly been disemboweled, their innards spilling from their bodies in half-rotted piles. Suddenly it made sense why Omricon-92’s shields are up — it had kept anyone wandering by the planet from picking up the lack of life on their long-range scanners. ‘Did Brolly do this…? No, he would’ve vaporized the whole place. This is something else…’ They _have_ to bring those shields down.

He looks about, then jets over to the forward array when he finds it. The sound of the other two taking off indicates that they’re following closely. While it is a little odd that Radditz doesn’t make some sort of snarky comment immediately, he’s grateful for the silence as he gets to work inputting his emergency override codes. Dead crew or not, Omicron-92 is still Frieza’s property, and he would almost certainly prolong their punishment were they to damage anything unnecessarily, more because he _can_ than because he actually cares for the cheap, cookie-cutter equipment. When the sound of the crackling stops, the Saiyans all straighten and look to each other before going in.

What hits their heightened senses immediately is the smell. A layered stench of burnt and putrefying flesh hits them, making them flinch or grimace as though the blow were physical. With their scouters still not picking anything up, they decide whatever group did this is probably long gone, and that it’s safe to split up and cover more ground. Radditz jets up to the roof to begin collecting any scouters he can find off the corpses so they can process any data they’d collected. Nappa enters the barely-lit building with his prince and quickly peels off to search for more bodies.

Vegeta heads for the central hub, passing a couple of corpses as he goes; a cursory examination, however, reveals no intact scouter in sight of any one of them. They’re either in tiny, irreparable pieces, or missing altogether. The Saiyan heir can feel his initial shock giving way to a sort of animalistic anticipation. Some sort of base, ancestral part of him thrills at the prospect of a challenging hunt; his rationality, however, muffles it with the knowledge that these creatures bested _Recoome_ , his most regular tormentor from the Ginyu Force (He refuses to call him a bully. He isn’t some cub in need of protection.). He had never managed to land more than two clean hits on the lunkhead before getting pummeled.

If they could track down one of the members of what was most likely a full squad of elite fighters, the three of them could take one down with their numbers and haul them in to answer to Frieza. Thus, he finds himself in his current predicament, gloves sticky with dark, coagulated blood and Kami-knows-what-else as he, irritated, searches yet another dead mook for a scouter he knows he won’t find. ‘These people are crafty; I’ll give them that.’ Growling, he drops the purple-skinned creature and just goes straight for the hub. Maybe the security recordings will prove more fruitful.

When the door opens, his senses are assaulted again by the odor of burnt flesh. The metallic smell of electrical burns and a faint wafting of ozone only make things worse, and he’s forced to bury his face in his arm as his tail tightens around his waist, the fur stiffening in response to his disgust. Vegeta blinks hard to keep his eyes from watering as he’s reminded vividly why Saiyans prefer to vaporize their enemies entirely. With his head turned to the side, the first thing he notices is that the walls seem heavily scored and blackened, the most evidence of someone putting up a fight he has yet to see.

After giving himself a moment to adjust to the room’s stench, he grunts in distaste and begins looking around. His eyes widen briefly once again at the sight of the second Ginyu Force member that Radditz had mentioned was stationed here earlier. Sitting just off-center in the room is the slumped form of Guldo, flesh more black than green. A smattering of other corpses litters the room, charred to an unrecognizable crisp. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised, given what’s outside. The contorted expression permanently frozen on the short creature’s face indicates that he died in severe pain, something Vegeta can’t say he’s unhappy about. He just wishes he’d been the one to do it.

Excitement, frustration, and (though he would never admit it) trepidation all rise in him at the prospect of a new, powerful group of fighters emerging to contest the Frieza Force. They could easily have left this place nothing but a pile of ashes. No, they’d left Omicron-92 intact as a message, something that Frieza couldn’t and wouldn’t overlook with the loss of two of his foremost soldiers. This would beyond a doubt earn the tyrant’s attention. The question from there was, why? And what sort of message were they intending to send? Was this some sort of twisted job application, an appeal to replace the Ginyu Force as the galaxy’s premier mercenary squadron, or a display of contempt?

The Saiyan prince, curiosity piqued, crosses the room rapidly and rips open the panel that he knows to contain the security system’s wiring. As to be expected, the whole thing is fried to a crisp, some of it still smoking and sparking. In a flash of insight, he realizes the brilliance of this particular assassin’s strategy. ‘The entire base is nothing but electronics layered with anti-impact structures. Not only would it be perfect for carrying a wave of ki transformed into electricity, but it would also mean there’d be nowhere for Guldo to run. His future sight would’ve been useless against an attack from all directions like that…’

Carefully, as to avoid too many brushes with the crackling wires, he reaches back into the circuitry until his fingers brush along the surface of something that isn’t metallic. He smirks. ‘They may be clever enough to destroy all of the scouters, but they didn’t even _try_ looking for the base’s black box.’ While they might not get a clear read on their power levels, with this, they have their identities, which, in Frieza’s eyes, would be just as good. They would have to wait until they arrived at another base to extract its data, given that O-92 seems only capable of running its most basic functions right now, but with a new wrench in his system, the tyrant’s displeasure would be redirected and they’d be back on the front lines where they belonged in no time.


End file.
